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pussyfalry

Summary: where she’s inlove with Sherlock but he doesn’t feel the same

Warnings : smut angst mean!sherlock kinda dumb reader , reader is Dih crazy lowkey

The air in Ferndell Hall felt heavier than usual, thick with the absence of Eudoria Holmes. It had been a week since she’d vanished on Enola’s sixteenth birthday, leaving only cryptic flower-etched cards and hidden coins that Enola had already deciphered enough to fund her escape. You—her closest friend from the nearby village, the one who’d spent years sneaking into the woods for archery lessons or late-night talks—had come under the pretense of concern. Enola had written you a hurried note, begging you to visit before her brothers arrived to “sort things out.”

You arrived just as Mycroft’s carriage pulled up, his stern face set like stone. Sherlock followed, taller, broader, his dark coat swirling like smoke. He barely glanced your way as he stepped inside—those piercing blue eyes scanning the room, the clues, everything but you.

Enola threw her arms around you the moment the door closed behind the brothers. “You’re here,” she whispered, voice cracking just a little. “I thought maybe you’d ignore the note. Everyone else seems to think I’m overreacting.”

You hugged her back tightly, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender and gunpowder residue from her mother’s old experiments. “I’d never ignore you, Enola. Not when your mother’s gone.”

She pulled back, eyes bright with determination. “I’m going to find her. Mycroft wants to ship me off to some finishing school like I’m a broken vase that needs mending. Sherlock… well, he’s Sherlock. He thinks it’s a puzzle, not a person missing.”

You nodded, glancing toward the parlor where the brothers argued in low tones. Mycroft’s voice carried—sharp, dismissive. Sherlock’s was quieter, measured, but you caught the edge of frustration.

What Enola didn’t know—what no one knew—was that your loyalty to her had always been tangled with something sharper, more selfish. You’d first met Sherlock years ago, when he’d come home briefly after one of his cases. A stolen conversation in the library, a brush of hands that turned into more. Twice now, in shadowed corners of London when you’d traveled there on errands, you’d ended up tangled in sheets at a discreet inn. Passionate, urgent, wordless almost. Afterward, he’d always pulled away—cold again, distant.

“Don’t call it that,” he’d said the last time, buttoning his shirt without looking at you. “It was a mistake. A momentary lapse.”

You’d laughed it off then, but the words burned. He never looked at you the way he looked at clues, or even at Enola—with curiosity, with reluctant fondness. To him, you were background noise, an inconvenience he indulged once or twice and then discarded.

Enola tugged your sleeve. “Come on. Help me pack what I need. I’m leaving tonight—disguised, of course. You can come with me partway, keep Mycroft from noticing I’m gone too soon.”

You followed her upstairs, heart pounding. Downstairs, Sherlock’s voice rose slightly—Mycroft pressing about propriety, Sherlock countering with observations about the flowers, the cipher. You caught Sherlock’s silhouette in the doorway as you passed, and for a split second his gaze flicked to you. No warmth, no recognition of what had passed between you. Just a brief, assessing look, like you were another piece of furniture out of place.

It stung more than it should have.

In Enola’s room, you helped her stuff a satchel with practical things—her mother’s old corset dagger, coins, a change of boy’s clothes she’d stolen from the stable boy. She chattered the whole time, half-nervous, half-excited.

“I don’t understand why Mother left without a word,” she said, folding a scarf. “She always said we were a team. But Sherlock… he thinks he can solve it from here. Like she’s just another case.”

You swallowed. “Maybe he doesn’t want to admit he cares as much as he does.”

Enola snorted. “He cares in his own way. He’s kinder than Mycroft, at least. He looked at me like I might actually be useful.”

You forced a smile. “You’re more than useful. You’re brilliant.”

She beamed at you, oblivious to the ache in your chest. “You’re the best friend anyone could have. I don’t know what I’d do without you here.”

The words twisted like a knife. Best friend. That’s all you’d ever be to her—because the real reason you’d stayed so close, the real reason you’d tolerated the awkward silences and the excuses, was downstairs. The man who wouldn’t even meet your eyes now.

As night fell, Enola slipped out the back, disguised as a boy, you trailing behind to cover her tracks. You walked her to the edge of the estate, where the London train waited in the distance.

“Be careful,” you whispered, hugging her one last time. “Find her. And write when you can.”

“I will.” She grinned, fierce and fearless. “And when I do, you’ll be the first to know. Promise you’ll keep an eye on things here? Make sure they don’t burn the house down arguing.”

You nodded. “Promise.”

She disappeared into the shadows, heading for the station.

You turned back toward the hall, the lights still burning in the windows. Sherlock stood on the porch now, alone, staring out into the dark as if he could see her trail already.

He didn’t speak as you approached. Just watched you with that unreadable expression.

“You knew she was leaving,” he said quietly. Not a question.

You lifted your chin. “She’s not a prisoner.”

A faint twitch at the corner of his mouth—almost a smile, but not quite. “No. She’s a Holmes.”

Silence stretched. You waited for something—anything—to acknowledge what had happened between you. An apology. A flicker of regret. Even anger.

Nothing.

He turned away, coat flaring. “Go home. This isn’t your puzzle to solve.”

You watched him walk back inside, the door closing softly behind him.

And just like that, you were alone again—best friend to Enola, mistake to Sherlock, and caught in the middle of a mystery you hadn’t asked for.

But you’d keep your promise. You’d watch, you’d wait, and maybe—just maybe—one day he’d look at you like you mattered.

Or maybe not.

Either way, Enola was out there, chasing her mother, chasing her own path.

And you’d be here, still hoping for a glance that never came.

———

“One year ago”

He stood by the window, back to you, staring out at the dark gardens as if answers might crawl out of the hedges. His shoulders were rigid under the black coat. You watched the line of his jaw tighten, the way his fingers flexed against the sill.

“You think I’m mad,” you said into the quiet. The words came out softer than you’d intended.

Sherlock didn’t turn. “I think you’re… persistent.”

A bitter laugh escaped you. “Persistent. That’s one word for it.”

He finally faced you then, eyes cool and unreadable in the firelight. Those same eyes that had looked at you in the dark of rented rooms, half-lidded with something you’d foolishly called desire. Something you’d called love.

“How many times has it been now?” you asked, stepping closer. “Five? Seven? I’ve lost count. Every time you came to London, every time you said it was just convenient, just a distraction from the case—”

“Stop.” His voice was low, sharp. A warning.

But you were tired of warnings.

“We made love,” you said, the phrase deliberate, defiant. “That’s what it was. To me.”

His expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind the ice—annoyance, perhaps, or the faintest discomfort. “We did not make love. We had intercourse. Physical release. Nothing more.”

You felt the words like a slap. “Then what were we doing, Sherlock? Tell me. Enlighten me.”

He exhaled through his nose, a short, impatient sound. “We were occupying the same space for a limited duration. Bodies in proximity. That is all.”

You closed the distance until you were barely a foot away. Close enough to smell tobacco and bergamot on his coat, close enough to see the pulse at the base of his throat. “You’re lying to yourself. You think I’m crazy because I feel something real. Because I let myself feel it.”

“I am not in love with you.” The words came out clipped, final, like a door slamming shut.

The room seemed to shrink. Your chest ached so fiercely you almost couldn’t breathe.

“But I am in love with you, Sherlock.” The confession burst out louder than you’d planned, raw and ragged. “I’ve been in love with you since the first time you looked at me like I was more than background. Since you touched me like I mattered. And every time after—every single time—you let me believe it might be more. Then you’d leave. You’d shrug it off. A mistake. A lapse. And I’d still come back. Because I thought—God help me—I thought one day you’d stop pretending.”

He stared at you for a long moment, expression blank in that terrifying way of his. No pity. No anger. Just observation.

“You are confusing attachment with affection,” he said quietly. “Chemical reactions in the brain. Dopamine. Oxytocin. Temporary states. They pass.”

“Then why do you keep letting it happen?” Your voice cracked. “Why do you keep letting me in if it’s nothing?”

“Because—” He stopped. Jaw working. For the first time, he looked almost… human. Vulnerable for half a heartbeat before the mask snapped back. “Because I am weak. And you are persistent.”

You laughed again, but there were tears in it this time. “That’s your excuse? Weakness?”

“It’s the truth.” He took a single step back, putting space between you like it was evidence. “I do not feel what you feel. I cannot. I will not.”

The fire popped, sending sparks up the chimney.

You wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand. “Enola thinks you’re kinder than Mycroft. She doesn’t know this side of you. The part that can look at someone who’s given you everything and still call it nothing.”

His gaze dropped to the floor. Just for a second.

“Go home,” he said, softer now. Not cruel. Just tired. “This isn’t a puzzle you can solve. There is no solution here.”

You stood there a moment longer, memorizing him—the sharp line of his cheekbones, the way the firelight caught in his dark hair, the stubborn set of his mouth. Then you turned.

At the door, you paused.

“One day,” you said without looking back, “you’ll realize that love isn’t a deduction. It’s not something you can dismiss with logic. And when that day comes… don’t expect me to still be waiting.”

You walked out into the cold night, the door closing behind you with a soft, final click.

Behind you, in the library, Sherlock Holmes remained exactly where he was—alone, unmoving, staring at the empty space you’d left.

He didn’t follow.

He never did.

——

“Flash back”

The library door had barely clicked shut behind you that night months ago—some rainy evening in London, another “coincidental” meeting after one of his cases wrapped early. You’d followed him to the small, anonymous boarding house he always used when he didn’t want to be seen at the Diogenes or Baker Street. No words at first. Just the wet slap of your coat hitting the floor, his fingers already working the buttons of your blouse like he’d memorized them.

He never kissed you gently. Never started slow. It was always urgent, almost angry—like he resented how much he wanted it. That night he’d pinned you against the wall just inside the door, mouth on your throat, teeth scraping, one hand fisted in your hair to tilt your head back while the other shoved your skirts up. You’d gasped his name—Sherlock—and he’d growled low in response, “Quiet,” even though the room was empty except for the rain drumming the window.

Clothes came off in pieces. Your corset stayed half-laced—he liked the way it pushed your breasts up, the way the boning dug into your ribs when he pressed you down onto the narrow bed. He didn’t undress fully; shirt open, trousers shoved down just enough. You remembered the scrape of wool against your bare thighs, the cold metal of his belt buckle pressing into your hip as he settled between your legs.

He’d thrust in hard the first time—no preamble, no teasing—just thick, stretching heat that made your back arch off the mattress. You’d cried out, nails raking down his shoulders, and he’d hissed through his teeth, “Still so tight,” like it surprised him every single time. Like he hadn’t already ruined you for anyone else.

He moved like he was solving you—deliberate, relentless, watching your face the whole time. Every hitch in your breath, every flutter of your lashes—he cataloged it. When you clenched around him he’d curse under his breath, hips snapping harder, deeper, the headboard knocking the wall in steady rhythm. You’d wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him in until there was no space left between you.

“Say it,” he’d demanded once, voice rough, forehead pressed to yours. “Say my name again.”

“Sherlock—” It came out broken, half-moan, half-plea.

He’d rewarded you with a grind so deep your vision blurred, thumb finding your clit and circling with ruthless precision until you shattered around him, sobbing his name into the crook of his neck. Only then did he let himself go—three, four brutal thrusts before he buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, guttural sound that vibrated through your chest.

Afterward, always the same.

He’d roll off you almost immediately, breathing hard, staring at the cracked ceiling like it owed him answers. You’d turn onto your side, still trembling, skin slick with sweat, and lay your head on his chest without asking. He never pushed you away—not right then. His heartbeat would thunder under your ear, fast at first, then slowing, steadying. You’d trace idle patterns on his stomach with your fingertips—over the faint scars, the line of dark hair that disappeared beneath the sheet he’d half-pulled up.

You’d think, stupidly, This is it. This is real. He lets me stay. He lets me touch him like this. You’d close your eyes and listen to the rain, to the slowing thud-thud-thud beneath your cheek, and convince yourself that the way his arm eventually draped across your back—loose, almost reluctant—was affection. That the quiet sigh he let out when your breathing evened was contentment.

You’d fall asleep like that every time. Curled against him, warm and sated and foolishly hopeful, his heartbeat lulling you under like a metronome.

And every time, you’d wake up alone.

He’d be across the room already—dressed, coat on, pipe in hand—watching you with that cool, detached expression. No morning kisses. No soft words. Just, “You should go before the landlady starts asking questions.”

You’d sit up, sheets pooling around your waist, still marked by his mouth on your throat, his fingers on your hips, and force a smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

“Until next time,” you’d say lightly.

He’d never answer. Just nod once, sharp, and look away.

You’d dress in silence, gather your things, and leave—heart bruised but still beating for him.

Because even then, even knowing he’d call it nothing the next morning, you’d let him take you apart again. And again. And again.

Hoping one day he’d let you stay past dawn.

He never did.

——-

The rain hammered the windows of the small London boarding house like it was trying to break in. It was the night before Sherlock was due to leave for that wretched trip—some case in the north, details he wouldn’t share, as usual. You’d come to say goodbye, or maybe to beg him not to go, or maybe just to see if he’d look at you one last time like you weren’t an inconvenience.

The argument started small. You accused him of running away again. He called it necessity. Voices rose. Words sharpened.

Now you stood by the bed, still half-undressed from earlier—your blouse open, hair tangled from his hands, skin still flushed and marked where his mouth had been. He was already buttoning his coat, movements precise, mechanical, like he could button away the last hour too.

“You’re leaving again,” you said, voice shaking. “Just like always. And you won’t even—”

“I have obligations,” he cut in, not looking up. “You knew that.”

“I could be pregnant, Sherlock.” The lie burst out before you could stop it, desperate and cruel. “And you wouldn’t even know. Or care.”

He froze. One button left undone. Slowly, he lifted his head, eyes narrowing—cold, assessing, the way he looked at a suspect who’d just slipped up.

“You’re not.”

You stared at him, chest heaving. “You don’t know that.”

“You’re not.” Firmer this time. A statement of fact. Like he’d already deduced it from your pulse, your breathing, the way you hadn’t touched your stomach protectively even once.

The room felt smaller. Hotter. You stepped closer, voice dropping to something raw and trembling.

“Remember the last time? Right here. On this bed. You had me on my back, legs over your shoulders, and you—God, Sherlock, you buried yourself so deep I couldn’t breathe. You groaned my name—my actual name, not some deduction—and then you came inside me. Hard. Deep. I felt every pulse. You didn’t pull out. You never do. You just… stayed there, shuddering, whispering ‘Christ’ against my throat like it hurt you to want me that much.”

His jaw clenched. He didn’t move.

“And the time before that,” you continued, stepping even closer, close enough to see the flicker in his eyes. “In the carriage after the opera. You dragged me onto your lap, shoved my skirts up, and fucked me right there with the curtains half-drawn. You bit my shoulder to keep quiet, but I heard you—those broken moans when you spilled inside me again. ‘Fuck—’ you said. ‘Just—take it.’ Like you couldn’t stop yourself. Like you needed to mark me.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “This is beneath you.”

“Is it?” Tears burned your eyes but you refused to let them fall. “Because every single time we’ve done this—every time you’ve come inside me without a thought, without protection—you’ve acted like it means nothing. Like I’m nothing. But your body doesn’t lie, Sherlock. Your moans don’t lie. The way you grip me like you’ll never let go until it’s over—none of that lies.”

He finally met your gaze fully. No warmth. No apology. Just that impenetrable wall.

“It was physical,” he said quietly. “Instinct. Release. I never promised more.”

“You never had to promise.” Your voice cracked. “You just… took. And I let you. Because I thought—stupidly—that feeling you lose control inside me meant something. That those moments when you couldn’t hold back, when you were just a man and not the great Sherlock Holmes… that those were real.”

He finished the last button. Coat closed. Armor on.

“I am going,” he said. Flat. Final.

You laughed once, bitter and broken. “Of course you are. Run to your case. Run from this. From me. From the possibility that one day your precious logic won’t be enough to explain away what you’ve done—what we’ve done.”

He paused at the door, hand on the knob. For half a second, something crossed his face—regret? Pain? It was gone before you could name it.

“Goodbye,” he said. No nickname. No softness.

The door opened. Rain rushed in like a cold slap.

And then he was gone.

You stood there in the empty room, blouse still gaping, thighs still sticky with the evidence of him, listening to his footsteps fade down the hall.

You sank onto the bed. Curled into the sheets that still smelled like tobacco and sex and him.

And cried.

Because even now—even after everything—you knew if he came back tomorrow, you’d let him in again.

You always did.

——

When Enola ran away you knew exactly where she went and Sherlock knew you’d knew so that’s why he went to you The knock came just after dusk, sharp and impatient, the kind of knock that announced authority rather than asked permission. You were already elbow-deep in flour, rolling out dough for the shepherd’s pie you’d promised yourself after the long day—something warm, something grounding, something that wasn’t Sherlock Holmes or the hollow ache he’d left behind.

You wiped your hands on the apron and opened the door.

Mycroft stood on your narrow stoop, immaculate coat buttoned to the throat despite the mild evening, expression carved from granite. Behind him, Sherlock loomed in shadow—coat open, collar turned up, eyes flicking over your face like he was already cataloguing every micro-expression you tried to hide.

“Miss,” Mycroft began, voice clipped, “we require information regarding my sister. Enola has absconded. You were her closest confidante. Where is she?”

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, flour dusting your cheek like war paint. “Good evening to you too, Mr. Holmes. And you, Sherlock. Lovely weather we’re having. Rain tomorrow, they say.”

Mycroft’s mouth thinned. “This is no time for levity. Enola is sixteen, untrained, unprotected—”

“Untrained?” You laughed once, short and sharp. “She’s been dodging your governesses and Mycroft’s lectures since she could walk. If anyone’s trained her, it’s your mother. And if she’s gone, maybe she finally got tired of being treated like a problem to be solved instead of a person.”

Sherlock shifted behind his brother—just a subtle weight change from one foot to the other—but you felt it like static. Mycroft stepped forward half a pace. “We have reason to believe she may have confided her intentions to you. Her destination. Her plans. You will tell us.”

You met his stare without blinking. “And if I don’t?”

“Then you are obstructing justice,” Mycroft said coolly. “And I have the means to make that uncomfortable.”

You tilted your head. “Threats already? That’s new. Usually you just lecture people into submission.” You glanced past him to Sherlock, who hadn’t spoken yet, hadn’t looked away. “You gonna arrest me too, or just stand there looking pretty?”

Sherlock’s jaw flexed. Mycroft exhaled through his nose like a bull about to charge.

“We will find her regardless,” Mycroft said. “It would be simpler—and safer for her—if you cooperated.”

You smiled, slow and sweet and utterly insincere. “I have a dinner to make. Shepherd’s pie. Minced lamb, carrots, onions, the works. Smells divine already. So if you don’t mind…” You gestured vaguely behind you, toward the warmth spilling from the open door. “Unless you’d like to stay for a plate. Though I warn you, I don’t do seconds for people who threaten me on my own doorstep.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed to slits. “This is not a social call.”

“Clearly.” You stepped back, hand on the door. “Good night, gentlemen.”

You started to close it.

Sherlock’s gloved hand caught the edge—gently, but firm enough that you couldn’t budge it without making a scene.

Mycroft glanced at him, surprised. “Sherlock—”

“I’ll handle this,” Sherlock said quietly. Not looking at his brother. Looking at you.

Mycroft hesitated, then gave a curt nod. “Very well. I shall return to the hall. Do not dawdle.” He turned on his heel and strode back toward the waiting carriage, coat flapping like a raven’s wing.

The door stayed half-open. Sherlock didn’t move to come in. Just stood there, rain beginning to speckle the shoulders of his coat.

You sighed. “You’re letting the heat out.”

He stepped inside without being invited. Closed the door behind him. The cottage suddenly felt smaller—too many memories of London boarding houses, too much of him in your space again.

You turned back to the kitchen, picked up the rolling pin like it was a weapon, and attacked the dough with more force than necessary. “Sit if you want. Don’t touch anything.”

He didn’t sit. He leaned against the wall near the hearth, arms crossed, watching you work. The silence stretched until it hurt.

You slammed the pie into the oven, wiped your hands again, and finally looked at him. “Ask.”

“Where is she?”

You snorted. “You think I’d tell you after what you said to me last time? After you walked out like I was nothing?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “She’s in danger.”

“She’s smarter than both of you combined. She’ll be fine.”

Another beat. Then, quieter: “How have you been?”

The question landed like a stone in still water. You froze, rolling pin still in hand.

You laughed—low, bitter. “Really? That’s what you lead with? Not ‘I’m sorry’? Not ‘I was wrong’? Just… how have you been?”

He didn’t flinch. “I’m asking.”

You set the rolling pin down. Hard. “I’ve been breathing. Working. Trying not to think about how you looked me in the eye and said everything we did meant nothing. How you left me standing in that room still smelling like you. How I cried myself sick after you shut the door. So, fine, Sherlock. I’ve been just fine.”

He swallowed once—barely noticeable, but you saw it.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” he said.

“Then why did you stay?”

“Because Mycroft would have kept pressing. Because I needed to see—” He stopped. Jaw tight. “Because I needed to know you were all right.”

You stared at him. The fire crackled. The pie bubbled in the oven, filling the room with the smell of thyme and comfort.

“I’m not all right,” you said softly. “But I’m not telling you where she is either. She trusted me. That’s more than you ever did.”

He looked away then—first time all night—toward the window where rain streaked the glass. “She left a flower on the train seat. Marigold. Grief. But also a message. She’s not running blind.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He already knew you knew more than you were saying.

He straightened. “I’ll find her.”

“I know you will.” You turned back to the stove, checked the pie even though it didn’t need checking. “But when you do… don’t drag her back like a criminal. Let her choose.”

Silence again.

Then, quieter than you’d ever heard him: “The pie smells good.”

You almost laughed. Almost. “It’s almost done.”

He didn’t move to leave. Just stood there, watching you, the firelight carving shadows across his face.

You didn’t offer him a plate.

He didn’t ask.

But he stayed until the rain eased, until the pie cooled on the sill, until the silence between you felt less like a wound and more like something that might one day heal

You stood by the stove, back to him, the weight of his question—How have you been?—still hanging in the air like smoke. You didn’t answer. Didn’t turn around.

When you finally did, he was closer than you expected. Not touching. Just… there. Eyes locked on yours, unreadable but burning. The space between you crackled. No words. No warning.

Then—

The mattress dipped under your combined weight, clothes scattered across the floor like shed skins. You were on top, knees braced on either side of his hips, hands planted on his chest as you sank down onto him in one hard, deliberate motion. No kisses. No tenderness. Just raw need.

He filled you completely, thick and hot, and you didn’t give either of you time to adjust. You rolled your hips once, twice, then started riding him with fierce, punishing rhythm—fast, aggressive, chasing your own release like it was the only thing that mattered. Your nails dug into his shoulders through the open shirt he hadn’t fully removed. His hands gripped your waist, fingers bruising, but he let you set the pace. Let you use him.

You ground down harder, clit dragging against him with every thrust, breath coming in sharp gasps. The bed creaked under the force of it. Sweat slicked your skin. You didn’t look at his face—couldn’t—kept your eyes squeezed shut, focused only on the building pressure, the friction, the way he stretched you open again and again.

He groaned low in his throat, hips jerking up to meet you once, twice—losing control despite himself. You felt him swell inside you, felt the tell-tale twitch, and you clenched deliberately, riding faster, merciless.

“Christ—” The word tore out of him, rough and broken, as he came—deep, pulsing, flooding you with heat. The sensation pushed you over. You shattered around him, thighs trembling, a sharp cry ripping from your throat as pleasure slammed through you in brutal waves.

You didn’t linger. Didn’t collapse onto his chest like before. The second the aftershocks faded, you rolled off him, swung your legs over the side of the bed, and stood putting a blouse over your head , back to him, breathing hard.

Behind you, the rustle of sheets. His voice, calm again—too calm, like nothing had happened.

“I know you know where Enola is. Let’s make this easy. Tell me where she is.”

You didn’t turn. Just stared at the wall, feeling him still inside you, dripping down your thigh.

Silence.

He exhaled once—quiet, resigned.

“Very well, then.”

The soft sounds of him dressing: shirt buttons, belt buckle, coat sliding over shoulders. Precise. Methodical. Like always.

The door opened. Closed.

You stayed standing long after his footsteps faded into the night

——-

The carriage rattled over the cobblestones toward Miss Harrison’s Finishing School for Young Ladies, a gray stone prison disguised as refinement. Enola sat opposite you, wrists lightly bound (more for show than necessity—Lestrade’s men knew she could slip them if she wanted), her boyish disguise stripped away, replaced by a stiff, borrowed dress that made her look younger, smaller, angrier.

They’d allowed you one brief visit before the gates closed—courtesy of Mycroft’s grudging permission, or perhaps Sherlock’s quiet intervention. You weren’t sure which. Either way, here you were, squeezed into the cramped compartment with a stern matron watching from the corner like a hawk.

Enola’s eyes were bright, defiant, even with the dirt smudged on her cheek and her hair pinned back severely. “You came,” she said, voice low so the matron wouldn’t catch every word.

“Of course I came.” You reached across the small space, squeezing her hand quickly before the matron cleared her throat. “I promised I’d keep an eye on things, didn’t I?”

She gave a short, wry laugh. “And how’s that going? Mycroft still furious?”

“Furious is his natural state. Sherlock…” You hesitated, the name tasting like smoke and regret. “He’s searching. Relentlessly.”

Enola studied your face, sharp as ever. “He came to your cottage, didn’t he? After I left.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. She saw it anyway—the faint shadows under your eyes, the way your mouth tightened.

“Be careful,” she said softly. “He breaks things he doesn’t mean to.”

The carriage slowed. Iron gates creaked open ahead.

You leaned in, voice barely a whisper. “Find a way to write. I’ll get the messages out. And when you escape this place—and you will—I’ll be waiting.”

She squeezed your fingers back, fierce. “I know.”

The matron stood. “Time’s up.”

You rose, heart heavy, as the guards moved to escort Enola out. At the door, you paused, looked back at her one last time.

-/——

The knock came late—too late for politeness, too early for regret. Rain lashed the windows of your cottage, turning the world outside into a gray blur. You opened the door with a towel still in hand from drying dishes, heart stuttering at the sight of him: coat soaked, hair curling damp against his forehead, eyes shadowed in that way that meant a case had gnawed at him all day.

Or maybe it was something else.

“What do you want, Sherlock?” You leaned against the frame, arms crossed, voice steady even as your pulse betrayed you.

He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, water dripping from his coat onto your floorboards. He shrugged it off, hung it by the door like he belonged there. Like he hadn’t walked out weeks ago without a backward glance.

“I was in the area,” he said, voice low, avoiding your eyes as he scanned the room—the half-eaten pie on the table, the fire dying in the grate, the single teacup by the chair.

You arched a brow. “In the area. Right. Try again.”

He paced two steps, hands clasped behind his back. Stopped. Glanced at you, then away. “There’s been… developments. With Enola. She’s safe, for now. Escaped the school. Again.”

“That’s not why you’re here.”

His jaw tightened. He cleared his throat once. Twice. “The weather is inclement.”

You just looked at him. Unblinking. Waiting.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, a rare crack in the composure. “You’re really going to make me say it.”

“Mhmm.” You didn’t move. Didn’t make it easy.

He closed the distance in three strides, hands cupping your face—gentler than you expected, thumbs brushing your cheeks like he was memorizing the feel of your skin. His eyes searched yours, stormy and conflicted.

“Because I miss you,” he said, voice rough, almost angry at himself for admitting it.

Then he kissed you.

Not tentative. Not asking. Claiming—like the weeks apart had starved him. His mouth slanted over yours, hot and demanding, tongue sliding in to taste you like he’d been dreaming of it. You gasped into him, hands fisting his shirt, pulling him closer even as part of you screamed to push him away.

He backed you toward the bedroom, hands already working your dress buttons, mouth never leaving yours. Clothes fell in a trail—your apron, his waistcoat, your chemise shoved down your shoulders. By the time the bed hit the back of your knees, you were bare, skin prickling in the cool air, and he was shedding the last of his restraint.

He laid you down slowly this time—not the frantic rush of before. Eyes locked on yours as he settled between your thighs, one hand sliding up your leg, tracing the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist. You arched when his fingers found you already wet, circling your clit with that maddening precision until you were writhing, begging without words.

“Sherlock—” It came out breathless.

He groaned low, positioning himself, and pushed in—slow, deliberate, letting you feel every inch. Your back bowed off the bed, nails scraping down his back as he filled you completely. He stilled for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged.

Then he moved.

Deep, rolling thrusts that hit every spot inside you, building slow and relentless. You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass to pull him deeper. His mouth found your neck, sucking marks into your brown skin, teeth grazing your collarbone. One hand pinned your wrist above your head; the other slipped between you, thumb working your clit in tight circles.

You came first—hard, clenching around him, crying out his name as pleasure crashed over you in waves. He followed seconds later, burying himself deep with a guttural moan, spilling inside you in hot pulses that left you both trembling.

After, he didn’t roll away.

He stayed inside you a moment longer, then shifted to his back, pulling you with him so you lay draped across his chest—your head over his heartbeat, one leg tangled with his. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your bare back, almost tender.

The fire popped in the other room. Rain softened against the roof.

You pressed a kiss to his skin, just above his heart.

“I love you,” you whispered. The words you’d screamed before, the ones he’d dismissed. But softer now. Real.

His hand stilled on your back.

Then resumed, slower.

“I know,” he said quietly.

Not a confession. Not yet.

But he didn’t leave.

And for tonight, that was enough.

cherienymphe

The Maddy is jealous narrative is already being pushed hard after this episode like that girl isn't jealous. She's hurt. There's a difference but they see her looking sad and think that means she wants Nate and she wants Cassie's life when whole time her former best friend is marrying the man who treated her like shit and she's watching in real time as that same girl looks perfectly content with her actions that maddy was collateral damage of

Not to mention she's valid to feel some type of way about the difference in treatment especially after his mom's speech. You can clock the switch up and still feel hurt that you were done a certain way without being jealous

Warnings: Explicit smut (oral sex focus), heavy toxicity, manipulation, arguments, sexual frustration cheating

Summary: where reader isn’t ready for sex but Elliot had different plans

——-

(Past)

The first few months with Elliot felt like a fever dream you couldn’t wake up from.

You told him straight up on your third date, sitting in his car after he drove you home from a late-night drive where he played guitar for you under streetlights. Your voice was soft, nervous, fingers twisting in your lap as your curls framed your face.

“I really like you, Elliot. But… I’m a virgin. I’ve never had a boyfriend before. I want to wait on actual sex. Is that okay with you?”

He looked at you with those sleepy, half-lidded eyes and gave you that crooked smile. “Yeah, baby. Of course. I can wait. You’re worth it.”

You believed him.

At first, things stayed mostly innocent. Sweet kisses that turned heated in his room or in the backseat. His hands on your waist, your thighs, cupping your face while he tasted the cherry lip gloss on your lips. You let him touch your breasts over your shirt—squeezing, thumbs brushing your nipples until you whimpered into his mouth. You’d grind against his lap sometimes, feeling how hard he got, but you always stopped before it went too far.

But Elliot hated waiting.

The arguments started small and grew.

One night, you were in his bedroom after another house party. Maddy had texted you twice asking where you were, but you ignored her. Elliot had you straddled on his lap on the edge of his bed, your skirt riding up your thick thighs, your dark brown skin warm against his pale hands. The makeout was getting intense—tongues sliding, his teeth tugging your bottom lip. You could feel his erection pressing up through his jeans.

His hand started sliding up your thigh, fingers slipping under the hem of your skirt, aiming straight for your panties.

You grabbed his wrist gently but firmly. “Elliot… no. Not yet.”

He groaned against your mouth, frustrated. “Come on, baby. Just let me touch you. I’ve been good. I’m not asking for everything.”

“I said wait,” you whispered, pulling back a little. Your heart was racing. You felt guilty for saying no, but the idea of going further made your stomach twist with nerves.

He pulled his hand away, but the energy shifted. The kiss turned rougher, more demanding. Then he tried again—fingers tugging at the button of his own jeans, popping it open like he was about to free himself.

You stopped him, pushing his hands away. “Elliot, stop.”

That’s when he got mad.

He shoved you off his lap—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make you stumble back onto the bed. His face twisted with irritation as he stood up, running a hand through his messy hair. “Fuck this. I’m not doing this blue-balled bullshit every time we’re together. You say you like me but you treat me like I’m some fucking creep for wanting my girlfriend.”

“Elliot—” Your voice cracked. You sat up, skirt still bunched up, chest heaving.

He was already grabbing his hoodie from the chair, heading toward the door like he was really about to leave. “Nah, I’m out. Go find some other guy who’s cool with just making out like we’re in middle school.”

Your heart dropped. Panic hit you hard—the thought of him walking away, maybe finding some other girl who would give him what he wanted. The girl who wasn’t “uptight” like everyone said you were becoming.

“Wait!” you called out, voice small and desperate. You slid off the bed and grabbed his arm before he could reach the doorknob. “Don’t go. Please.”

He stopped but didn’t turn around fully, shoulders tense. “Then what? You gonna keep teasing me?”

You swallowed hard, cheeks burning with shame and embarrassment. Your innocent side screamed at you not to do this, but the fear of losing him won. “I… I can suck your dick.”

——-

(Past )

It was a lazy Thursday evening in Elliot’s room. The curtains were half-drawn, casting a dim orange glow across the posters and scattered clothes on the floor. You were straddling his lap on his unmade bed, your thick thighs bracketing his hips, your skirt riding up just enough to expose smooth dark skin. Your curls fell around your face like a curtain as you kissed him—slow, deep kisses that tasted like the cherry soda you’d been drinking earlier and the faint weed on his breath.

Elliot’s hands started innocent enough: one on your waist, the other stroking your back under your cropped top. But you knew him by now. He was testing.

His fingers crept higher, sliding up the inside of your thigh, slow and deliberate, inching toward the edge of your panties. You didn’t say anything. You just kept kissing him, pretending not to notice, while gently but firmly moving his hand back down to your knee every time it wandered too close.

He tried again. This time his palm pressed flat against your inner thigh, thumb brushing dangerously close to the heat between your legs. You shifted, pushing his hand away once more without breaking the kiss, your lips still moving against his like nothing was happening.

Elliot’s patience snapped.

He roughly grabbed your hips and yanked you off his lap, practically shoving you to the side of the bed. The sudden movement made you gasp, your body bouncing slightly on the mattress as your skirt flipped up. His face was flushed with frustration, eyes narrowed.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he snapped, voice low and sharp. He sat up straighter, running a hand through his messy brown hair. “You’re just gonna keep moving my hand like I’m some little kid who can’t touch his own girlfriend? We’ve been together for weeks and you’re still acting like this?”

You sat there, chest heaving, lips swollen from kissing. Your dark brown skin felt hot with embarrassment and a flicker of fear. “I… I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to ruin the moment,” you whispered, voice small. “I just… I’m not ready for that yet.”

“Not ready?”That’s some twisted shit, baby. You’re teasing me on purpose.”

“I’m not teasing!” Your voice cracked as you scrambled to your knees on the bed, trying to reach for him. “I told you from the beginning I wanted to wait on sex. You said you were okay with it.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not okay with blue balls and getting cockblocked every five minutes!” He grabbed his hoodie from the chair, slinging it over his shoulder like he was really about to walk out. “Maybe I should just go find someone who actually wants me to touch them. Someone who isn’t scared of her own fucking body.”

The panic hit you instantly—the same sick twist in your stomach every time he threatened to leave. Images flashed through your mind: him with some other girl at a party, laughing, touching her freely while you sat home feeling worthless. Maddy’s warnings echoed faintly, but they were drowned out by the fear.

“Wait—Elliot, don’t go,” you pleaded, voice trembling. You crawled to the edge of the bed and grabbed his arm, your manicured nails digging lightly into his skin. “Please. I… I’ll let you finger me. Just this once. Okay?”

He stopped, turning to look at you. His expression softened into that dangerous mix of triumph and hunger. The hoodie dropped back onto the chair. “Yeah? You sure this time? Or are you gonna move my hand again like a little tease?”

You nodded quickly, even as shame burned in your chest. “I’m sure. Just… be gentle?”

Elliot smirked and pushed you back onto the bed, crawling over you. “Gentle, huh? We’ll see.”

He kissed you again—harder this time, almost punishing—as his hand slid back up your thigh. This time you didn’t stop him. Your legs parted slightly, heart hammering, as his fingers reached your panties. He rubbed you over the fabric first, feeling the damp spot that had formed despite your nerves. A low groan escaped him.

“Already wet .”

You whimpered against his mouth as he pushed your panties aside, his fingers sliding through your slick folds. Two fingers circled your clit slowly at first, then faster, drawing shaky moans from your throat. Your dark brown skin flushed deeper as heat built between your legs.

When he pushed one finger inside you, the stretch made you gasp and tense up. It was uncomfortable—foreign—but not painful. He pumped it slowly, curling it, searching for that spot that made your hips jerk.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he muttered against your neck, sucking a mark into your skin that you’d have to hide from your mom later. “Relax, baby. Let me make you feel good.”

A second finger joined the first. The fullness made your breath hitch. He scissored them gently at first, then started thrusting with more rhythm, his thumb pressing firm circles on your clit. Wet sounds filled the room—obscene and loud in the quiet space. Your hands fisted the sheets, curls sticking to your forehead as pleasure started overriding the guilt.

“Elliot… oh god,” you moaned, hips starting to rock against his hand despite yourself. Tears pricked your eyes—not from pain, but from the overwhelming mix of shame and unwanted ecstasy.

He watched your face the whole time, eyes dark. “That’s it. Let go.

You came with a broken cry, clenching around his fingers, your thighs trembling around his wrist. The orgasm ripped through you hard and fast, leaving you panting and dazed on the bed.

Elliot pulled his hand out slowly, bringing his glistening fingers to his mouth to taste you. He groaned in approval.

You lay there afterward, skirt still pushed up, panties askew, feeling exposed and dirty. The guilt crashed in immediately. You’d let him go further than you wanted. Again. Your body still buzzed from the high, but your mind screamed at you for giving in.

He collapsed beside you, pulling you against his chest like nothing had happened. One hand stroked your curls almost tenderly. “See? That wasn’t so bad. Next time you won’t fight me so hard.”

You didn’t answer. You just curled into him, silent tears slipping down your cheeks while he reached for a joint on the nightstand, lighting it as if the argument had never occurred.

The cycle was tightening its grip.

You were changing faster than you could stop it.

A/n Tell me if yalll want me to finsh and if you likeee

#euphoria #Eliot #dominic fike #smut #viralpost

•18+ Adults Only

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Warnings : Teen pregnancy unplanned pregnancy Breakup exes to co-parents kicked out by mom)Poverty financial hardship / eviction threatsAngst heartbreak unresolved feelings cursing

Summary : where your teen parents with soda ,

You always knew SodaPop Curtis was trouble—the good kind, the kind that made your heart race like a stolen car down a backroad. It started back in high school, sophomore year, when you were the new girl in Tulsa, fresh from the North Side where things were a little less rough but no less lonely. Your family had moved for your dad’s job, but it didn’t take long for the divides to show: greasers vs. Socs, and you, with your dark skin and city ways, fitting nowhere easy.

Soda noticed you first in the hallway, flashing that grin that could melt steel. “Hey, beautiful. You lost?” He’d leaned against the lockers like he owned the place, Pepsi in hand, hair greased back just so. You rolled your eyes, but damn if your stomach didn’t flip. He was persistent, showing up at your locker with stolen flowers from someone’s yard or notes scribbled on ripped notebook paper: “Meet me at the DX after school? -S.P.”

The first kiss happened under the bleachers during a football game neither of you cared about. His hands were gentle, calloused from working on cars, and he tasted like cherry cola. From there, it was on: stolen moments in his beat-up truck, late-night walks by the river where you’d talk about everything—his brothers, your dreams of getting out of this town, how the world seemed stacked against kids like you. But it was off just as quick. Fights over nothing—jealousy when he’d flirt with some Soc girl at the drive-in, or you’d pull away because your mom hated “those boys” and the stares you got for being together.

You’d break up, swear it was over, then he’d show up at your window at midnight with that puppy-dog look. “C’mon, baby. I can’t sleep without you.” And you’d cave, because the love was real, bone-deep. The kind where he’d defend you from slurs whispered in the halls, or you’d sneak food to the Curtis house when times were tight. On again, off again, like a faulty engine that kept sputtering back to life.

Then came the pregnancy. You were both barely out of school. It was after one of those makeup nights, tangled up in the back of his truck under a blanket of stars. You didn’t plan it—hell, you weren’t even thinking straight. But when the test turned positive, everything shifted. Soda’s face when you told him: shock, then a fierce protectiveness. “We’re keepin’ it,” he said, pulling you close. “I’ll marry you tomorrow if you want. We’ll make it work.”

You tried. God, you tried. Moved in together for a bit in a cramped room above the DX, courtesy of his boss pulling strings. Soda worked double shifts, coming home smelling like oil and exhaustion,talk to your belly like the baby could hear. “Hey, little guy. Your moms the strongest person I know.” You loved him more than ever, seeing him step up—borrowing books from the library on parenting, promising forever.

But reality hit hard. Your mom flipped, calling you every name in the book before kicking you out with nothing but a suitcase. “You ruined your life with that white trash,” she spat, slamming the door. Soda’s side wasn’t much better; money was always short, and the stress built like storm clouds. Fights turned ugly—over bills, over him staying out late with the gang to blow off steam, over you feeling trapped and scared. “You think you’re ready for this?” you’d yell. “We can’t even keep the lights on!”

One night, it shattered. You were seven months along, swollen and aching, when he came home late again. Words flew like knives: accusations, regrets. “Maybe we ain’t cut out for this,” he finally said, voice breaking. You agreed through tears, packing your things that same hour. The breakup stuck this time, not because the love faded—it burned brighter, twisted with pain—but because neither of you were ready. You for the long haul of motherhood alone, him for the weight of it all on top of his family’s burdens.

Malik came into the world screaming, with Soda right there in the delivery room, holding your hand until his knuckles turned white. “He’s perfect,” he whispered, tears in his eyes as he cut the cord. But after, you went your separate ways—him back to the Curtis house, you to that rundown apartment, piecing together a life from diner shifts and pride.

Even now, a year later, the love lingers in the little things: the way his eyes soften when he sees you, the extra cash he slips you without a fight, the unspoken “what if” hanging in the air. You weren’t ready then, but maybe, just maybe, time’s changing that. For Malik’s sake. For yours

————

Current -

The morning sun barely filtered through the cracked blinds of your tiny apartment, the kind of place where the walls were thin enough to hear the neighbors arguing and the heat came in fits and starts. Your one-year-old son, Malik, was babbling happily on the worn rug, clutching a stuffed bear that had seen better days. You were already in your uniform for the diner—faded pink dress, apron stained from yesterday’s grease—trying to stretch the last of the formula and diapers until payday.

Your mom had kicked you out right after you told her about the pregnancy, said she wasn’t raising “some mistake” under her roof. That left you here, scraping by on tips and pride, co-parenting with the one person who still made your heart do stupid flips even after everything fell apart.

You scooped Malik up, pressing a kiss to his soft curls—his hair was all Soda, wild and dark, but his eyes were yours. “C’mon, baby boy. We gotta go see Daddy before Mama’s shift.”

The walk to the Curtis house wasn’t far, but it felt longer with a wiggly toddler on your hip and worry gnawing at your gut. Rent was due tomorrow, and you were short. Again.

When you knocked, Darry answered, looking tired but softening the second he saw Malik. “Hey, little man.” He took him gently, bouncing him as Malik squealed. “Soda’s in the back, gettin’ ready.”

You stepped inside, the familiar smell of coffee and motor oil hitting you like a memory. Soda appeared from the hallway, hair still damp from the shower, buttoning up his DX shirt. He looked good—too good—and it stung.

His eyes flicked to you, then to Malik in Darry’s arms, and something tightened in his jaw. “Hey.” Simple word, but it carried weight.

“Hey.” You shifted your weight. “I, uh… I hate to do this, but—”

He sighed, already knowing. “How much?”

You swallowed. “Only about thirty. If you don’t have it, it’s fine, I swear. But if I can’t cover rent, they’re gonna evict us, and I can’t—I can’t have him in a shelter, Soda.”

Malik reached for his dad then, chubby arms out, babbling “Da-da” in that heart-melting way. Soda’s expression cracked. He stepped forward, taking Malik from Darry like the kid weighed nothing, holding him close against his chest. Malik grabbed at Soda’s collar, giggling.

Soda looked at his son for a long beat, then back at you. His voice was low, frustrated, but not mean. “Seriously? How much do you need?”

“Thirty you repeated, quieter. “Just to get us through. I get paid Friday .

He bounced Malik gently, the way he always did when he was thinking hard. You could see the war in his eyes—the same one that had been there since you broke up right after Malik was born. Things had been good once. Real good. Then life happened: money fights, your mom’s venom, the stress of a baby neither of you planned for You’d both said things you couldn’t take back.

He shifted Malik to one arm, reached into his back pocket with the other, and pulled out his wallet. Counted out thirty in crumpled bills, then added an extra ten. “Here. Take forty. Buy him some real food, not just that cheap stuff.”

“Soda—”

“Don’t.” He handed you the money, careful not to let your fingers brush too long. “And don’t walk all the way here next time if it’s cold. Call. I’ll come get him—or you. Whatever.”

You nodded, throat tight. Malik was nuzzling into Soda’s neck now, content. Seeing them together always hit you hardest—the way Soda’s whole face lit up, the way he held your son like he was the only thing that mattered.

“Thanks,” you whispered.

Soda looked at you then, really looked. “You don’t gotta thank me for takin’ care of my kid. Or you.” He paused, voice dropping. “You know that, right?”

You didn’t answer, just reached for Malik. Soda handed him over reluctantly, brushing a hand over the baby’s head one last time.

“Shift starts soon,” you said, stepping back toward the door. “I’ll pick him up after close. Darry said he could watch him if you’re at work.”

“Yeah. We’ll be fine.” Soda shoved his hands in his pockets. “Just… be safe walkin’ home tonight, alright?”

You gave a small smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Always am.”

As you left, Malik waved over your shoulder, babbling at his dad. Soda stood in the doorway watching until you turned the corner, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between you like Tulsa summer heat.

Maybe one day you’d talk about it—really talk. About the breakup, the hurt, the way you still loved him even when you pretended not to. But for now, it was just another day of surviving, one borrowed dollar and one shared son at a time.

——

The next afternoon dragged slow at the diner—grease, coffee refills, and the kind of tips that barely covered bus fare. Your feet ached in those cheap non-slip shoes, but the clock finally hit four, and you untied your apron with shaky fingers. Rent was paid (barely, thanks to Soda’s forty bucks), Malik had spent the night and most of today with the Curtises, and now it was time to bring him home.

You walked the familiar route, the late February wind cutting through your thin jacket. The Curtis house looked the same as always: peeling paint, porch light flickering, but somehow warmer than your own place ever felt. You knocked once, soft, and Soda opened the door almost immediately, like he’d been waiting.

Malik was on his hip, cheeks flushed from playing, one tiny hand clutching the front of Soda’s DX shirt. The baby lit up when he saw you, reaching out with both arms and squealing “Ma-ma!” loud enough to make Ponyboy poke his head out from the living room with a grin.

“Hey,” Soda said, voice easy but careful, the way it always got around you now. He stepped aside to let you in. “He’s been an angel. Ate like a champ, took a good nap. Darry even read him that picture book about the trucks three times.”

You smiled despite yourself, reaching for Malik. “Thanks for keeping him. I know you had work this morning.”

Soda shrugged, transferring the toddler gently into your arms. Malik immediately buried his face in your neck, warm and smelling faintly of baby shampoo and the faint motor-oil scent that always clung to Soda. “No big deal. He’s good company.”

You lingered in the doorway, rocking Malik on instinct. The house was quiet except for the low hum of the TV in the background—some old western Darry liked. Soda rubbed the back of his neck, that nervous habit he’d had since you were kids.

“You, uh… you look pretty,” he said suddenly, almost like the words slipped out before he could catch them. His eyes flicked over you—your hair pulled back in a bun, uniform still on under your coat, lipstick long faded from the day. But he said it like he meant it, soft and sincere.

Heat crept up your cheeks anyway. “Thank you,” you murmured, looking down at Malik’s curls so you wouldn’t have to meet Soda’s gaze too long. “Long shift. Feel more like roadkill than pretty.”

He huffed a small laugh, stepping closer without crowding you. “No You always look good. Even when you’re tired.”

The compliment hung there, simple and dangerous, stirring up all the old feelings you tried to keep buried under bills and exhaustion. You swallowed, bouncing Malik lightly. “I should get him home. dinner, the usual.”

“Yeah.” Soda nodded, but he didn’t move right away. His hand brushed Malik’s back once, then hesitated like he wanted to touch you too but thought better of it. “You need anything? Groceries? Diapers? I can swing by the store later if—”

“We’re okay,” you said quickly, though the fridge at home was looking sad. “Really. Thanks, though.”

He searched your face for a second, like he was trying to read between the lines the way he used to. “Alright. Just… call if you change your mind. Door’s always open for you two.”

You gave a small nod, throat tight. “I know.”

Soda’s whole face softened, that big, heartbreaking grin breaking through. “Bye, little man. See you soon.”You stepped off the porch, Malik waving his little hand over your shoulder with a sleepy “Bye-! that made your

chest ache in the best way. The cold February air nipped at your cheeks as you started down the cracked sidewalk, but you could still feel the weight of Soda’s gaze on your back—he hadn’t moved from the doorway, still leaning against the frame, eyes following you like he was memorizing the way you walked away.

Behind him, Darry was slouched in the armchair by the window, the latest Hot Rod magazine open across his lap. He hadn’t said a word the whole time you were there, just watched with that quiet, big-brother radar of his. But the second the door clicked shut and your footsteps faded down the steps, he let out a low, rumbling laugh.

“No fuckin’ chance,” Darry said from the corner, not even looking up from the page he was pretending to read.

Soda’s head snapped around, cheeks already flushing under the grease smudges that never quite came off. “Shut up,” he muttered, shoving his hands deep in his pockets and turning away from the door. He started toward the kitchen like he had somewhere important to be, but his steps were slow, reluctant.

Darry didn’t let it go. He flipped a page loudly, smirking. “You try too hard, man. Way too hard.”

Soda kept walking, shoulders stiff, ignoring him. But Darry raised his voice just enough to carry, the laugh still in it. “She’s gonna notice one day you’re still standin’ there starin’ like a lovesick puppy every time she leaves. Might as well put a sign out front: ‘Soda Curtis, still whipped since ’68.’”

Soda didn’t answer. He disappeared around the corner into the hallway, but you could hear the faint creak of the floorboards as he paused—just for a second—before the bedroom door shut a little too firmly.

Out on the street, you pulled your coat tighter, Malik’s warm weight against your chest the only thing keeping the chill at bay. You didn’t look back. You never did anymore. But something in the air felt different tonight, like the old pull between you and Soda was stretching thinner, ready to snap one way or the other.

Back inside, Darry shook his head, closed the magazine, and muttered to the empty living room, “Idiot.” But there was no real heat in it—just the tired affection of someone who’d watched his little brother fall in love the same way twice, and still hadn’t figured out how to stop hoping it’d stick this time.

#the outsiders #sodapop curtis #teen pregnancy #viralreels #black tumblr #viralpost #viral news #viral #outsiders fandom

The fluorescent lights of Midtown High’s empty chem lab buzzed overhead as you pushed Peter Parker back against the lab bench, your cheer skirt riding up just enough to make his eyes widen behind those thick glasses.

“Shut up and listen, Parker,” you whispered, voice low and commanding, manicured nails digging into his hoodie. “You do my physics homework. All of it. Every week. You breathe a word to anyone—Ned, MJ, your creepy aunt—and I’ll make sure the whole school knows you creep on cheer practice from the bleachers.”

He swallowed hard, cheeks flaming. “I—I don’t—”

You rolled your eyes, pressing your body flush against his scrawny frame. “Don’t lie. I see you. Everyone does.” Your hand slid down, palming him through his jeans just to watch him jolt. “But you’re useful. So be a good little nerd and keep your mouth shut while I keep you… motivated.”

That first time was quick, messy, desperate. You rode him right there on the stool until he was whimpering your name like a prayer, coming so hard he nearly knocked over a beaker. You fixed your lip gloss in the reflection of a glass cabinet, tossed the stack of worksheets at his chest, and left without a backward glance.

“Text me when it’s done. And Peter?” You paused at the door. “Not a soul.”

It went on like that for weeks. Closet quickies after practice. His bedroom when May was at bingo. The back row of the library during free period. Always you in control—skirt hiked, thighs clamping around his narrow hips, telling him exactly how fast, how hard, how deep. He never lasted long at first. Too eager, too overwhelmed by the fact that you—the untouchable Black cheer captain with the sharp tongue and sharper body—were even touching him.

Then the bite happened.

You didn’t know about the spider. All you knew was that one Tuesday after school, Peter showed up to your “study session” different. Broader. Taller. Shoulders filling out that ratty hoodie in ways that made your mouth go dry. When you shoved him against the wall like usual, he didn’t stumble. He caught your wrists instead—gently, but firm. Unbreakable.

“The fuck?” you breathed.

He looked almost apologetic. “I… got a little stronger.”

You tested it. Pushed harder. He didn’t budge. Curiosity (and something hotter) curled in your belly. You yanked him down by his collar and kissed him—really kissed him—for the first time. No teasing, no games. Just teeth and tongue and a sudden, aching need.

That night you didn’t ride him. He fucked you.

Back pressed to his bedroom door, legs wrapped around his waist, he held you up like you weighed nothing. Deep, relentless thrusts that made your vision blur and your nails rake down his back—back that felt corded with new muscle. You came so hard you forgot how to breathe for a second, and he just kept going, whispering sorry-sorry-sorry even as he wrecked you.

After that, you couldn’t stop.

The secret stayed locked tight. You still snuck around—janitor’s closet between periods, under the bleachers after late games when the stadium lights were off, the back seat of his uncle’s old beat-up car parked behind the school lot. But now the dynamic had shifted without either of you saying it out loud. You were the one texting him during AP Lit: Meet me. Now. You were the one dragging him into empty locker rooms after practice, dropping to your knees because you needed to feel how thick he was now, how he stretched your lips differently, how he groaned when you took him deeper than before. You rode him in the chem storage room until the shelves rattled, thighs trembling, begging him not to stop, don’t you dare stop, harder Peter please—

He got cockier about it, too. That shy stutter started fading. He’d smirk when you whimpered his name, pin your wrists above your head with one hand like it was nothing, fuck you slow and deep until you were shaking and pleading, until you forgot who was supposed to be in charge.

But then the little things started.

First it was five minutes late to your usual spot behind the gym. Then ten. Then he’d text sorry running behind and show up twenty minutes after you’d already been pacing, irritated and wet and annoyed at yourself for caring. You brushed it off—maybe May needed him, maybe decathlon ran long. You didn’t say anything. Just yanked him into the nearest empty classroom and made him make it up to you twice as hard.

Then it was canceled sessions. Can’t tonight, something came up. No explanation, no begging for forgiveness. Just a short text and silence. You stared at your phone for longer than you’d admit, thumb hovering over the call button before you locked it and went to bed frustrated.

One Friday he didn’t show at all. You waited in the chem storage room for forty minutes, back against the cold metal shelves, skirt still hiked from anticipation. Nothing. No text. No Peter. You left fuming, heels clicking down the empty hallway, telling yourself you didn’t care, that he was replaceable, that this was never supposed to be more than homework and hookups.

Monday after cheer practice you found him in the hall, hoodie up, moving faster than he used to, like he was late for something bigger than calc. You stepped in front of him, arms crossed, ponytail swinging.

“You bailed Friday,” you said, voice low so no one else would hear. “No heads-up. Nothing.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes. “Yeah. Sorry. It was… family stuff.”

You studied him. The faint shadow under his eye that looked like exhaustion, not a bruise. The way he kept glancing toward the exit like he was listening for something you couldn’t hear. He looked tired—bone-deep tired—but still solid, still strong in that new way that made your thighs clench just looking at him.

“Family stuff,” you repeated flatly.

He nodded, quick and jerky. “I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”

You stepped closer, close enough that your chest brushed his. “You’d better. Because I don’t wait around, Parker. Not for anyone.”

His gaze flicked to your lips, then back up. Something hungry flashed there, but he swallowed it down. “I know.”

You let him go without another word. Watched him hurry off toward the stairwell, shoulders tense.

That night you didn’t text him. Let him stew. Let him wonder if you were done.

But when your phone buzzed at 1:17 a.m.—I’m outside. Can we talk?—you were already pulling on leggings and slipping out the back door before you could talk yourself out of it.

He was waiting by the side of the house, hood up, hands in his pockets. The streetlight caught the new lines of his jaw, the way he stood taller now.

You didn’t speak at first. Just grabbed his hoodie and pulled him around the corner, out of sight. Pushed him against the brick wall and kissed him like you were punishing him.

He groaned into your mouth, hands sliding under your shirt immediately, gripping your waist like he’d been starving for it.

“You don’t get to disappear on me,” you muttered against his lips, already working his jeans open. “Not without a damn good reason.”

“I know,” he breathed, lifting you easily so your legs wrapped around him. “I’m sorry. I just—”

“Shut up.” You sank down onto him in one smooth motion, both of you gasping at how perfectly he still filled you, how much deeper it felt now that he wasn’t holding back as much. “Make it up to me. Right here. Right now.”

He did.

Hard. Fast. Desperate. Like he’d been thinking about it all weekend too.

When you both finished, panting against each other’s necks, you didn’t let him pull away yet.

“Next time you bail,” you whispered, “you tell me. I don’t care what it is. Just don’t leave me hanging.”

He nodded against your shoulder. “Okay.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him—really look. He still hadn’t explained the strength, the late nights, the way he sometimes flinched at distant sirens like they were calling his name. But you didn’t push. Not tonight.

Instead you kissed him once more, softer this time.

“Don’t make me regret keeping you around, Parker.”

He gave you that small, crooked smile—the one that used to be shy but now carried something heavier.

“I won’t.”

You let him walk you back to the door. Watched him disappear into the dark.

And even though part of you knew something was still off—something big he wasn’t saying—you told yourself it didn’t matter.

As long as he kept coming back.

As long as he kept fucking you like the world was ending every time he touched you.

That was enough.

For now.

——-

The distance had been creeping in for days, then weeks. What started as a few late texts and missed meetups turned into full silences—hours, then days where your phone stayed quiet. No apologies. No excuses beyond the vague busy or sorry, can’t tonight. You told yourself it was nothing. Told yourself you weren’t the type to chase.

But you were.

After cheer practice one Thursday, the school mostly emptied out, you spotted him alone in the far end of the hallway near the science wing. Hood up, backpack slung over one shoulder, head down like he was trying to disappear into the linoleum. He looked… worn. Shoulders hunched the way they used to before the change, but now it was different—less awkward nerd, more someone carrying something invisible and heavy.

You walked up quietly, heels clicking softer than usual. He didn’t notice until you were right in front of him.

“Peter.”

He startled, eyes flicking up behind those glasses. For a second you saw it—the old flicker of want, the way his gaze dropped to your lips, your legs, the way your cheer skirt still clung from practice sweat. But then it shuttered. Closed off.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. Too careful.

You stepped closer, close enough that he had to tilt his head down to meet your eyes. “The house is empty tonight. Parents are out till Sunday. We have the whole place to ourselves.” Your fingers brushed the front of his hoodie, light, teasing. “No interruptions. No rushing. Just you and me.”

His breath hitched. You felt it—the way his body leaned in for half a heartbeat before he caught himself. “I… I can’t tonight.”

You tilted your head, smile not quite reaching your eyes. “Okay. Maybe another time then.”

He nodded too fast, already shifting his weight like he was about to bolt. “Yeah. Another time.”

But you knew that look. The twitch in his jaw, the way his eyes darted toward the exit doors like something was pulling him. He was lying. Badly.

Before he could step back, you closed the gap. Cupped his face with both hands—gentle, but firm—and kissed him.

For a second, he melted into it. Like muscle memory. His hands came up to your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise in that new strong way of his. He kissed back hungry, desperate, tongue sliding against yours like he’d been starving for it. A low sound rumbled in his throat—half groan, half something broken.

Then he jerked away like you’d burned him.

Fast. Too fast.

He stumbled back a step, breathing hard, eyes wide and guilty. “I—I gotta go.”

“Peter—”

But he was already turning, long strides eating up the hallway. Hood pulled lower, shoulders tight. He didn’t look back. Just pushed through the double doors into the late-afternoon light and disappeared around the corner.

You stood there, lips still tingling, chest tight with something you didn’t want to name. Anger. Hurt. Confusion. The hallway echoed empty behind you.

You didn’t chase him this time.

Instead you leaned against the lockers, arms crossed, staring at the spot where he’d vanished. Your fingers brushed your mouth where his had been—rough, needy, then gone.

He was pulling away. Not just bailing. Running.

And for the first time, you wondered if whatever he was hiding was bigger than late-night excuses or family stuff. Bigger than you.

You exhaled slow, straightened your skirt, and walked the other way.

But the ache stayed. Low in your belly. Sharp in your chest.

He’d come back. He always did.

Eventually.

You just hoped it wouldn’t be too late when he finally did.

Tell me how yall feel about it y

#smut #black tumblr #viralpost #spider #spiderman #peter parker

BITCH

Oh !

hiiiiii

Hellooooooo

Warnings: Explicit smut (P in V, unprotected sex), taking advantage kink/power imbalance, infidelity/cheating, toxic arguing relationship, pregnancy attempts (one-sided desperation), historical setting (with period-accurate elements like stag films/silent era underground porn, emotional manipulation, jealousy/paranoia, drama/angst. Dark themes verbally cruel toxic marriage (terrible husband neglectful

I don’t agree with any of this but that’s how times where

The Projectionist x black!reader

Since idk his name let’s call him David

Ok yall so I wrote this a whileee back and when I reread it on February 1st I was like there’s no way I’m posting this on black history month!! So tell me if yall like and I MIGHT finish

The theater smelled like old velvet and cigarette smoke, the kind that clung to your coat long after you left. the war over, the flu mostly faded, but the world still felt half-broken. You’d come in from the city outskirts — Harlem edges bleeding into quieter streets — chasing auditions that never called back. A pretty face and a quick step weren’t enough when the directors wanted “exotic” but not too exotic, or when they just wanted to grope instead of cast.

That’s when you met him.

The Projectionist. Tall, pale, sharp cheekbones under the low glow of the booth light. David — though no one called him that; he was just “the Projectionist” to everyone in the nickelodeon crowd. He ran the reels for the big features: Chaplin, Valentino, the serials that made girls sigh. But after hours, when the house lights dimmed and the last stragglers left, he screened other things. Private reels. Stag films. The kind men paid extra to watch in back rooms, grainy 16mm of bodies moving in silent frenzy.

He caught you lingering one night after a matinee of The Sheik. You’d been practicing steps in the aisle, dreaming of being the next big thing on screen. He leaned in the booth door, cigarette dangling.

“You move like you belong up there,” he said, voice low. “Not down here sweeping popcorn.”

You laughed, but it came out bitter. “They don’t cast girls like me for the big pictures. Not yet.”

He smiled — slow, knowing. “I could make you a star. My kind of star.”

That was the start.

He took you to the booth that night. Locked the door. Ran a reel he’d spliced himself: a girl on a bed, legs spread, man behind her, no story, just motion. Silent, but the projector clattered like a heartbeat. He stood behind you, hands on your waist, whispering how you could be her — better. How men would pay to see a beauty like you, skin like polished mahogany catching the flicker.

You let him touch you while the film looped. His fingers under your skirt, finding you wet already from the forbidden thrill. He didn’t ask; he just took. And you let him — because the fantasy felt closer than it ever had.

Soon it wasn’t just watching. He filmed you.

First test reels: you stripping slow, teasing the camera like it was a lover. Then more. You on your knees, mouth open. You riding him reverse so the lens caught every roll of your hips. He called it “art.” You called it a ticket out. The stag films were short, crude, but they circulated — discreet tins passed hand-to-hand in speakeasies, lodges, private clubs. Money came in trickles. Enough for new dresses, makeup, a tiny apartment above a laundry in the city.

And him.

You started dating proper after the third reel. He moved you in. Said he’d leave the theater life behind once you hit it big. Promised auditions, connections. Said he loved how wild you got on camera — how you begged without words, how your body arched like it was born for the lens.

But love was a loose word.

He came home late. Always late. Reeking of smoke, perfume that wasn’t yours, whiskey on his breath. You’d sit on the sagging couch — the one luxury you’d bought with reel money — staring at the new radio he’d “borrowed” from a friend. The static hissed like accusation.

“Where were you?” you’d ask, voice flat.

“Working,” he’d snap, tossing his coat. “Reels don’t run themselves.”

“You smell like her.”

He’d laugh — cold. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, doll.”

But it did. It suited you fine when you were trying to build something. You’d been off the preventives for months. No more douche bags or calendar tracking. You wanted a baby — his baby — something permanent in this slippery life. Proof he wasn’t just using you for the films, for the sex, for the way your brown skin looked electric under the projector bulb.

He never said no to trying. But he never said yes either.

The arguments got uglier.

One night he stumbled in at 3 a.m., shirt untucked, lipstick on his collar like a signature. You were curled on the couch in your slip, radio playing some slow blues that made your chest ache.

“You’re cheating,” you said. Not a question.

He rubbed his face. “Don’t start.”

“I smell her on you. Again.”

He crossed the room fast, loomed over you. “You think I’m out there wasting time when I’ve got you? When I’m the one putting your face on film?”

“You’re the one who said I’d be a star.” Your voice cracked. “But all I am is your dirty little secret in a can.”

He grabbed your chin, tilted your face up. Eyes dark. “You like it dirty. Don’t pretend.”

You slapped his hand away. Stood. “I want more than your cock and a camera.”

He stared, then laughed — mean. “You want the baby. The picket fence. The whole picture. But you’re still spreading for me on reel three.”

The fight ended the way they always did.

He pushed you back onto the couch. You shoved at his chest — half-hearted. He kissed you hard, teeth clashing, tasting like betrayal and need. You bit his lip until you tasted copper.

“Fuck you,” you hissed.

“Yeah,” he growled. “You will.”

He yanked your slip up, no preamble. You weren’t wearing anything underneath — hadn’t been for weeks, hoping he’d come home and see, want, stay. His fingers found you slick despite the anger. Always slick for him.

“See?” he murmured against your throat. “This is what you need.”

You hated how right he was.

He freed himself — hard already, thick, familiar. No condom. Never anymore. He pushed in slow at first, letting you feel every inch, then slammed home. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt.

“Tell me you want it,” he demanded, thrusting deep.

“I hate you,” you moaned, legs wrapping around him anyway.

“Say it.”

“I want your baby,” you whispered, broken. “Want you to fill me up. Make it real.”

He groaned, pace brutal now. Couch springs creaking like the projector. Your hips rose to meet him, taking advantage of every stroke, every grind against your clit. He took advantage too — pinning your wrists above your head, fucking you like he owned you. Like the camera was rolling even now.

“You’re mine,” he panted. “No one else gets this. No director. No starlet. Just me.”

“Liar,” you shot back, but your body betrayed you — clenching, fluttering, chasing release.

He came first — hot, deep, spilling inside like a promise he never kept outside this room. You followed seconds later, crying out, thighs shaking. He stayed buried, grinding slow to push it deeper.

“Don’t move,” he muttered. “Keep it in.”

You lay there panting, his weight heavy, comforting and suffocating all at once.

Minutes passed. He softened inside you but didn’t pull out. Kissed your temple — softer now.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. First time he’d said it.

You didn’t believe him. But you let him stay.

The next morning he was gone before you woke. Left a note: Back late. Reels to run. Love you.

You stared at the radio, silent now. Touched your stomach. Wondered if this time it would take.

Wondered how long you could keep pretending this was stardom.

And not just survival.

——

The test came back positive in late spring You’d missed two cycles, felt the queasy wave every morning like clockwork, and finally paid the doctor in the colored ward a visit. He confirmed it with a nod and a pat on your hand: “You’re in the family way, Mrs. Harlan.” (He’d taken David’s last name on the marriage certificate, though the ring came later.)

David proposed that same night. Not on one knee — nothing so romantic. He came home earlier than usual, sober for once, carrying a small velvet box. You were in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, scrubbing the cast-iron skillet from supper (pot roast you’d slow-cooked all day on the new gas range he’d “won” in a poker game). Flour dusted your apron; sweat stuck your curls to your neck.

He set the box on the table without preamble.

“Open it.”

Inside: a platinum band, Art Deco filigree curling like smoke around a small but brilliant old European-cut diamond. Square shoulders, geometric edges very him. Flashy enough to catch light in a speakeasy, subtle enough not to scream stolen.

You stared. “What’s this for?”

“You’re pregnant he said, like it was obvious. “Figured we oughta make it proper. Ring on your finger. Wife in name.”

No “I love you.” No promises. Just logic, cold as the projector bulb.

You slipped it on anyway. It fit perfect. Heavy. Permanent.

The wedding was quick — city hall, a witness from the theater, no flowers, no cake. You wore the new dress you’d bought with the last stag film payout: emerald green silk that hugged your still-flat belly. He kissed you after the vows like he was claiming territory.

For a while, it felt like winning.

But winning never lasted with him.

You became the perfect 1920s wife — or tried to. Monday: laundry in the tub, boiling water on the stove, wringing shirts until your hands blistered. Tuesday: mending his torn collars, darning socks by lamplight. Wednesday: silver polish (what little you had), pantry scrub, icebox wiped down while the block of ice sweated. Thursday: marketing — haggling at the corner grocer for cheaper cuts because the reel money had dried up. Friday: bedrooms aired, sheets changed, bath scrubbed. Saturday: kitchen deep-clean, closets sorted. Sunday: rest, except you cooked the big meal anyway — fried chicken, greens, cornbread — hoping he’d stay home.

He rarely did.

He’d come in late, reeking of gin and cheap perfume. You’d be on the couch again, radio low, hand on the small swell under your slip. Waiting.

“Where were you?” Same question, same night.

“Working the booth. Late show ran over.” Lie. Always the same lie.

“You smell like her. Again.”

He’d laugh — that mean, tired laugh. “There ain’t no her, doll. I told you. I ain’t sleeping around. Swear on the kid.”

You’d believe him for a second. Then remember the lipstick stains, the late nights, the way he’d touch you less tenderly now that you were “his” on paper.

The arguments turned vicious.

One night in July, heat thick as molasses, you’d spent the day canning peaches — jars lined up on the counter like trophies. Your back ached; ankles swollen. He stumbled in at midnight, shirt half-unbuttoned, eyes glassy.

You met him at the door. “You promised you’d be home for supper.”

“Got held up.”

“With who?”

He shoved past you. “Nobody. Christ, lay off.”

You followed him to the bedroom. “I’m carrying your child, David. I cook, I clean, I wait like some fool while you—”

He spun. Grabbed your wrist. “While I what? Keep the lights on? You think those stag reels pay forever? They’re drying up. Men want fresh faces now. Not… this.” His eyes dropped to your belly.

The words hit like a slap.

You yanked free. “You said I’d be a star.”

“You are.” He stepped closer, voice dropping. “My star. In my films. In my bed. That’s enough.”

Tears burned. “It ain’t enough when you’re out fucking around.”

“I ain’t!” he roared. Then softer, almost pleading: “I swear, baby. Ain’t nobody else. Just you. Always you.”

You wanted to believe it so bad it hurt.

He kissed you then — desperate, bruising. Pushed you back toward the bed. You shoved at him, but your body remembered. Always remembered.

He lifted your nightgown, hands rough on your hips. “See? You still want me.”

“Shut up,” you hissed, but you opened your legs anyway.

He didn’t waste time. Pushed in hard, no prep, no gentleness. You gasped — half pain, half need. He groaned into your neck, thrusting deep, possessive.

“Mine,” he muttered with every stroke. “This belly. This kid. All mine.”

You clawed his back. “Prove it. Stay home. Be a husband.”

He fucked you harder for that — punishing, claiming. Your ring caught the moonlight, flashing. You wrapped your legs around him, taking him deeper, using him even as he used you. The old kink flared: him taking advantage of your desperation, you taking advantage of his guilt.

“Gonna fill you again,” he panted. “Keep you full. No one else gets this.”

You came crying — angry tears, release, love twisted into something ugly. He followed, spilling hot and deep, grinding like he could seal the promise inside you.

After, he stayed buried, hand splayed over your belly. “I ain’t cheating,” he whispered. “Believe me.”

You didn’t answer. Just stared at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the ring, the child, the life you’d built on lies.

Days blurred. You kept the house spotless. Cooked his favorites. Waited.

He kept coming home late.

One evening you found a hairpin — blonde — in his coat pocket. You held it up like evidence.

He denied it. Swore on everything. Said it must’ve been from the theater seat.

You threw it in the sink. Watched it swirl down the drain.

That night he fucked you gentle for once. Slow rolls, kisses on your throat, whispering apologies into your skin. “I love you,” he said — first time since the proposal. “Only you.”

You let him. Let the words sink in like medicine you knew was poison.

But the swell grew. The baby kicked. And still the late nights continued.

You stopped asking where he went. Started saving the little money you could scrape — hidden in a jar behind the flour bin. For the day you’d stop waiting.

For the day you’d take the kid and walk.

But for now, the ring stayed on. The house stayed clean. And when he came home angry or drunk or guilty, you let him take you on the couch, on the kitchen table, against the wall — because it was the only time he looked at you like you mattered.

Like you were still his star.

Even if the spotlight had dimmed to nothing but flicker.

#pearl #smut #the projectionist #david corenswet #happy black history month #I don’t condone #wtf I hate my brain